“For the effect it might have on the people, I mean. Wouldn't it help restore their confidence in us?”
“No, Doctor. The people—except the young men—haven't changed. Trouble will come wherever the Lookers go. No, your place is here.”
Once in the mission residence, Doane hurried up the two flights of stairs to his own rooms. He met no one; the door of Boatwright's study was closed.
So they needed him. The strain was shaking their monde a little. It was really not surprising, after 1900. But if they needed him it was no time to indulge his own emotions. He would have to take hold again, that was all; perhaps keep hold, letting the news that was to be to him so evil come up as it might. He sighed as he closed his door. Some sort of a scene there must be; at least a talk with the Boatwrights about So T'ung and about the local problem.... One thing he could do; remove his dusty clothing, wash, put on fresh things. It would help a little, just the physical refreshment. He went back to the door and locked it..... Boatwright would be up, almost certainly.
Very shortly came the familiar hesitant tapping. For years the little man had made his presence known in that same faintly timid way. It was irritating.... Doane called out that he would be down soon.
“Oh... all right... thank you!” Thus Boatwright, outside the door. And then he moved slowly, uncertainly, down the stairs.
3
Boatwright was sitting idle at his desk, rolling a pencil about. It was an old roll-top desk from Michigan via Shanghai. Doane closed the door, quietly, and drew up a chair.
“You'd better read this.” Boatwright spread a telegram on the desk. “I haven't told the others. It came late this afternoon.”
The message was from Mrs. Nacy, acting dean of the little college at Hung Chan.